


time will rob us of these too

by belkastle



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Mild Language, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belkastle/pseuds/belkastle
Summary: Maybe Eddie doesn’t remember that. Maybe he doesn’t remember anything except his name, the bare fucking minimum.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	time will rob us of these too

**Author's Note:**

> a clown-less universe where the losers are haunted by normal things, like student loan debt and fading relationships. 
> 
> things to keep in mind: 
> 
> 1\. i haven't read the book, so this is primarily based on the 2017/2019 films.  
> 2\. this fic is reddie-centered, but other relationships may play a significant role!  
> 3\. the losers are all in their mid-late twenties.  
> 4\. this should stay relatively sfw. exceptions include foul language, of which there is plenty, some underage drinking in flashbacks. later chapters may have sexual implications.

“Two bikers walk into a laundromat...”

The building joke, if he can call it that, is lost on him as Richie drops another quarter into the washing machine, chin tucked to his chest as he counts out the last several coins in his palm. He stops, then shoots the machine a tired glare.

Two quarters short. “Dammit.”

He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a five-dollar bill, the last of his cash on hand, then turns distractedly toward the change machine. The clothes will be fine, he thinks. Who would mess with someone else’s clothes at a laundromat? What do you get out of it? Free clothes, maybe. Is there a joke in that? He twists the bill in his palm as he waits behind another patron.

Jokes were easy when he didn’t think about it. They were crass and perfectly timed, completely natural and free-flowing when born through conversation. Stand-up was a different beast. The last time he performed at the Laughing Gas Comedy Club he poked fun at the audience for their notably ironic lack of laughter – “They put the wrong kind of gas in there? Thought I was getting a deal here.” They didn’t laugh. They rarely did.

“You should sit down and try writing something _actually_ funny,” Bill told him once. He was tapping away at his phone, writing down some idea he’d never see to fruition. He had several dozen notes saved, fleeting thoughts and nightmares worth salvaging. Richie watched him with a sort of envy – Bill was always generating electricity while Richie stood desperately in the rain, brandishing a metal rod.

He groaned at him, throwing his legs up on his lap as he sunk into the couch cushions. “Fuck, Bill – you genius, let me get on that.”

Bill adjusted mindlessly, arms resting on his legs. He saved the note, then glanced back at him sympathetically. “Do you think comedians walk on stage and improvise their set every time?”

“I’m not an idiot, asshat, I know how stand-up works.”

“Then work! It’s not supposed to be easy.”

Richie groaned again, all dramatics, but the pressure led him here, a journal burning in his jacket pocket and the gentle hum of laundry machines echoing around him.

Quarters clatter out of the change machine. Richie mouths a potential resolution to his terrible biker joke – something about cycles? What a fucking miss – and nearly bumps into the patron ahead of him as he steps forward, on autopilot, to fill the empty space he was supposed to leave behind.

“Oh, sorry.” Quarters spill onto the ground haphazardly. The man stops reaching for them. “Richie?”

The shaggy-haired brunet lifts his head, eyes widening behind his lenses.

“What – Eddie?”

His stomach drops. Now _that’s_ a joke.

Richie swallows thickly. To his displeasure, Eddie makes a point to look _actually_ unsure as to whether or not this is the same Richie he once followed through the woods, debating the ethical concern of using sweet gum balls as currency in their make-believe civilization of seven. There was an abundance of the prickly seeds, but Eddie cited the equally abundant number of rocks, leaves, and, you know, fucking _coins_.

“That’s not as fun,” Richie cooed at him. Eddie opened his mouth to retort and Richie, already brimming with amusement, scooped a handful of gumballs into his palms and sent them flying Eddie’s way. He’d complain as they stuck to his shirt, but scrambled eagerly to fling them back.

Maybe Eddie doesn’t remember that. Maybe he doesn’t remember anything except his name, the bare fucking minimum.

Does he look that ragged? Is his facial hair _that_ distracting? Bill complained sometimes about the scruff, but fuck. It’s not like it was _bad_.

He resists the urge to reach up and scratch it; he should have shaved today.

“Eds. Hey.”

Against all odds, Eddie Kaspbrak lights up. “Wow – fuck, man. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t have it in him to be as dry as he wants: _Waiting for you to grab your change._

“Laundry,” he says, trying not to sound rude. It’s a dumb question, all things considered.

“Right,” he laughs. “Dumb question.”

Dammit.

Richie smiles politely, willing away the devil on his shoulder; he can’t help but picture it: some 40-year-old scruffy drunk in a Party City costume. God, is that his future?

The drunk fuck taunts him: _Isn’t it cute, you two still on the same wavelength?_ Fuck off, he tells it.

Eddie Kaspbrak isn’t cute. Even now he looks more disheveled than he did in high school. His face has grown taller, finally dropping the baby fat he kept in his cheeks. He shaved this morning; there’s a small clot to the left of his chin.

A disaster, really.

Eddie reaches down to pick up the last of his quarters. Richie considers this a good sign that they’re going to move on with their completely separate lives, but as Eddie steps aside and Richie, still trapped in this situation, his laundry sitting impatiently in a machine several feet away, steps forward to put his bill in the change machine, Eddie speaks up.

“How is everything?”

_Are we really fucking doing this?_

Richie glances toward him, his eyebrows lifting. “Oh, fine.”

He smiles, fidgets idly with the quarters in his hand. “That’s good. What are you doing now? Uh – for work. Obviously not _right now_ , because ... you know.”

“Laundry,” they say at the same time.

Eddie brightens, a little embarrassed. “Right,” he chuckles.

The quarters tumble out. Richie grabs them, shuffles them in his palm. “I’m at the mall,” he admits. “Full time.” If Eddie means to judge him, he doesn’t show it. “But I’m doing stand-up, too.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, I mean. It’s work, so.”

Eddie shrugs a shoulder. “Work is work, right? It’s something. And at least it sounds like something you _like_.”

“I mean, the retail part not so much,” he says, offering a middling hand signal. He doesn’t admit that the retail’s the most of it. The comedy club hasn’t exactly been hitting the sweet spot financially. Can’t perform if you don’t have a set.

“Well, still.” He fumbles with his own change, glances back toward the dryers briefly, then smiles at Richie. “What else is new?”

So, they’re still doing this.

He searches aimlessly for another fun fact, something he might have thrown out the first day of his nonfiction literature class. Like any of it matters.

“I’m, uh, _affianced_ ,” he says in some bastardization of a French accent. Maybe more English. Like Lindsay Lohan in the Parent Trap. Or Lindsay Lohan playing the American sister pretending to be the English sister in the Parent Trap. Eddie glances toward his finger which is notably bare. “We’re still working on that,” he adds, waggling his fingers in the air.

Eddie smiles more politely now. Maybe he’s being sincere, smiling like that. Maybe he doesn’t care. It’s hard to tell, honestly.

“That’s awesome,” he says. “Who is she?”

“He,” he corrects, brow furrowing a little. He smiles awkwardly.

“Oh, right. He.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too much, Eds,” he says, scrunching his nose. “It’s not like I ever told you.”

Eddie doesn’t look particularly relieved. He eases away from the blunder pretty smoothly, though. “Did you meet him in school? You stayed here, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, drawing it out. He’s itching to start his laundry. It’s just sitting over there, in washer 18, waiting to be started. The detergent’s already seeping through his boxers. What if someone tries to take it out? What if they steal his soap? Or his journal of shitty jokes? He leans back on his heels. “Get this,” he says, leaning forward to whisper the hot gossip, “it’s _Bill_.”

Eddie blinks.

“You know. Denbrough. Big Bill? Bill. From when we were kids.”

It looks like he’s finding it harder to smile politely. God, is he a homophobe?

“Yeah, no. I got that,” he says. “That’s crazy. I mean – I didn’t know anyone was even still talking.”

Richie shrugs. “Stan’s out of state. We talk all the time though. Bev’s ... busy. She’s interning for some magazine company in New York.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah. It’s different for everyone, you know? Mike comes over to drink with us sometimes. Ben’s in New York finishing his Bachelor’s.” He presses his lips together. “You don’t keep up with anyone?”

Eddie hesitates, glancing toward the dryers awkwardly again. “Not really,” he says. “Sometimes friendships just drift, right?”

Richie shifts his weight. “Yeah, it’s just interesting.” His voice lilts with the faintest annoyance. “I mean, you live in town, right? Unless you travelled all the way here for _me_. Eds, I’m touched.”

“It’s just Eddie,” he says patiently. “Yeah – listen. I’m gonna check on my clothes really quickly. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.”

Confident that’s the last of it, Richie walks back to his machine. He drops the quarters in one by one, his fingers trembling. Fuck, how much time has passed? Fifteen, twenty minutes? Just like Eddie fucking Kaspbrak to steal more time from him.

This time was supposed to be his. He’d sit at the table next to the candy machines and churn out a few half-decent jokes. He only let someone interrupt him once, some little girl asking his opinion on the candy options. He had to share it, naturally.

Eddie is not a cute kid.

He nearly kissed him once in high school. They were at Bill’s place. Them, Stan, and Mike. Bev was stuck at home and Ben had some dumb-ass paper to write. They had fun, anyway, drinking casually while reruns of Fresh Prince played on TV. Bill was buzzing with adrenaline, the first to succumb to the alcohol – they always suspected some part of it was exaggerated, but the shitty tolerance always stuck – and kept checking the door for signs of his father.

Eddie sat next to him on the couch, attached to his hip. He dangled himself on Richie like a boyfriend might and Richie just ... let him. He welcomed it.

It was easy to slip into the bromance of it all. Eddie rejected his advances anyway, dismissing them as taunts and fuckery.

He even succeeded in a carefully timed not-so-casual arm across the back of the couch. Eddie either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Maybe he welcomed it? A secret truth behind the closeness of their friendship. Some desire that mimicked his own.

Between episodes Bill jumped to his feet. “I’m getting more snacks,” he announced, snatching the near-empty bowl of chips up from the floor.

“I’ll grab drinks,” Mike said, following suit.

As they bounded up the stairs, Stan stretched his arms out. “I don’t feel great,” he murmured.

He sat at Richie’s feet. Richie, compelled to make literally anything worse, nudged his arms with his socks. “Can’t hold your beer?”

Stan shoved him away and scrambled forward. “Shut up,” he murmured, getting to his feet. “I just think we don’t have to drink to have fun.”

Richie pouted. “You’re not having fun, Stan?” He kicked his feet forward. “Why don’t you come back here and I’ll show you a good time—”

“I hate you,” he deadpanned. Richie beamed. “Do you guys want anything?”

“A date with your mom.”

Stan flipped him off.

“I’m good,” Eddie said, smiling wryly at Richie’s antics.

Richie drew his arm back just enough to awkwardly pick at his own hair.

“I don’t know what he’s complaining about,” Eddie said, nudging Stan’s empty can with his foot. “I could go for another one.”

Richie snorted. “Uh, that’s a _terrible_ fucking idea, Eds.”

“Uh, _hey_ , fuck off,” he laughed, tilting his head up to him briefly.

Richie made the mistake of looking at him. Eddie was shorter than him; Richie hit his growth spurt early, sprouting like a fucking tower, and Eddie, despite his best efforts, was about as tall as the bushes curbside. He only met his shoulders. This, for better or worse, made it easier for Eddie to use him as a pillow in moments like this. He could lean on him all he wanted, tilt his head up at him and squint with those judgmental doe eyes and carry on like it meant nothing.

He felt like Mia Thermopolis, fantasizing his foot-pop moment with his best friend. More or less.

It played out in his head, some 80’s vignette fogging the room (alright, so the references don’t all line up; who gives a fuck it’s a romantic comedy moment):

He’d say something: “Hey, Eds.”

Then, when Eddie didn’t bother to look back at him, too focused on the show, Richie would take his chin with the tips of his fingers and make him look.

He’d kiss him for what seemed like minutes and Eddie, surprised but excited, would reach up and tangle his fingers in his hair.

Just as their friends came back downstairs the kiss would end. No one would know, but Eddie would be buzzing about it until they were alone again.

Except he didn’t kiss Eddie.

The scene echoed vividly in his mind, then burned like film frozen under a lens.

Ultimately he swore never to regret not following through.

It’s not like Eddie was the type to hold back his feelings. He always spoke his mind, even when it wasn’t welcomed. If he had kissed him then, Eddie might have screamed at him. The night would go up in flames and Richie would never talk to any of them again, overwhelmed with embarrassment.

Eddie, unburdened with the drama of Richie’s alternate universe, slinks back to him now just as the washing machine starts its cycle. “Had to put it in for another run,” he explains, like Richie asked for it.

“That’s fine.”

“So,” he starts again, leaning back against the folding table opposite the machines, “Bill? I get it. You two were ...”

Richie laughs, leaning back too, hands shoved in his pockets. “Intense?”

“Sometimes I thought you actually hated each other.”

“Oh, I can’t stand that motherfucker,” he says seriously. Eddie smiles knowingly. Richie shrugs. “I fought you all the time and we turned out fine.”

He nods. “Sure, yeah.”

With no escape on the horizon, Richie leans into it. “What about you? What are you doing?”

“Oh. Myra and I working together.”

Richie looks at him.

“My girlfriend,” he explains. “We’re starting a business up in Rockland. It’s the early stages. I’m handling the numbers, she’s got the creative side. She’s got a good eye for marketing, you know? The psychology of it. It’s gonna be great.”

“That’s sweet,” he lilts. “Bill and I don’t really work together. We’d tear each other apart, probably. Just, full fucking Wolfman nightmare, you know?”

Eddie chuckles. “Does Bill work well with anyone?”

Richie smirks. “Probably not. He’s doing really good, though.”

“Yeah? I haven’t been able to keep up. How’s his writing?”

“Great. He’s published in a few magazines. Mostly short stories. Working on a screenplay right now. He’s got someone interested in his style, so we’ve got our fingers crossed.” He crosses his fingers to really drive the point home.

“See?” Eddie lights up. “Things are looking up already.”

Richie lets out a dry laugh. _How much could you possibly know?_ “Yeah, I guess.”

“Listen,” he says, glancing back toward his dryer, “I would love to see him. To see both of you. And – Mike? If he’s free.” He grins excitedly – has Eddie always been like this? Just ... happy? The sight is a little nauseating. The Eddie he once loved – well, thought he loved – would have teased him relentlessly by now. Picked a fight with him. Gave him shit for not separating his laundry. But he just smiles and offers vague reassurances.

Polite.

“Yeah, man. We’d love that,” Richie says.

“Great. There’s this uh – Myra and I go to this trivia night every month. It’s a couple Saturdays from now. The 16th. It’s up at the comedy club, actually.”

“I think I’ve seen the flyers.”

“We just started hosting it there. She loves it. All of her friends participate. Um. If you and Bill want to come, maybe we could catch up more?” He searches his gaze for a moment. Richie blinks his away, opting to stare awkwardly at the timer on the washing machine.

“Yeah, that would be fun,” he says with a weird amount of commitment. Eddie always had a fire under his ass in competition. He’d demolish others in track, absolutely lose himself in the thrill of it all. Even when he was overwhelmed with anxiety, the faintest push sent him barreling along full-force. Richie loved being the one to push him, see him soar.

This dumb trivia night might be his best chance at seeing him like that again.

Bill would love to see him.

“We’ll be there,” he says decidedly, like the consequences wouldn’t bite him in the dick later. The devil on his shoulder cackles violently. He looks back up to see Eddie beaming.

“Great. Well, uh, my laundry’s about done – I’ll see you then?”

“Absolutely,” Richie says with an abundance of enthusiasm. “It’s a date.”

God, he hates himself.

Eddie laughs.

“Right.” He starts to move, then hesitates. “Could I – would it be weird to – nevermind,” he decides, holding up his hand.

Richie can see the flurry of scenarios in Eddie’s eyes. “What is it?”

“I was going to ask,” he says, making a face at himself. “Would it be weird if I hugged you?”

_Fuck yeah, definitely._

Richie laughs. “You serious? No, it’s fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie nods as if to reassure himself, then hugs him.

It’s awkward, not anything like the ones he used to savor. Eddie’s taller now, not taller than him, but much closer, and _built_ more. He’s hardly the same scrawny guy he was in high school. Eddie’s got a dryer full of Alfani dress shirts and Richie’s wearing the same AC/DC t-shirt he picked up from a dumpster in twelfth grade. He’s the fucking dismantled clearance rack shoved in the corner of the local Macy’s. Eddie’s _the Macy’s_. He only ever had some slim chance of fitting into his life, but they used to make it work. Now?

Eddie pulls back, lips pressed into a thin line. “Nice seeing you, Richie.”

“You too.”

He walks away then.

Richie turns his gaze to the washing machine, the timer ticking down minute after minute.

He works his jaw, replaying the entire encounter in his mind.

Is he on drugs? Did the lady at concessions lace his Dr. Pepper with LSD?

He reaches for his journal, laughing under his breath as he writes the best joke of the afternoon.

_My fucking life, apparently._

_Eddie Kaspbrak, this goes out to you._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for giving this a look! it's been a long time since i've really written fanfiction (and published it), so feedback is always appreciated. 
> 
> to be clear, this fic has a vague trajectory so it will be multi-chaptered. if you like it, i hope you'll stick around to see where this seemingly random encounter takes these clowns. 
> 
> you can catch me on twitter @belkastle for more reddie ramblings!


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